


Nocturne

by deskclutter



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deskclutter/pseuds/deskclutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fakir keeps falling out of bed because of bad dreams. Written for Fakiru Week Day 3 prompt: dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne

A very tinkly sort of music was haunting the forest by the lake, which had turned misty and strange like the early morning when dew still hung wet on the grass.  
  
Someone was dancing, dancing in the purple haze. A sugarplum fairy, he thought, but no, of course not, nor an anteater either -- he knew these people and there were two of them...  
  
A horse whinnied from deep within the woods, where the shadows were thickest and he couldn't see. Panic caught at him, sudden and strong, like a murder of ravens dashed straight in his chest. He ran towards the dancers as he shouted, his sword in his hand and cloak billowing around him, and he tripped over still water--  
  
\--landing with a thump on his bedroom floor, disoriented and bleary-eyed, his heart still drumming in his chest.  
  
Thank goodness no one was around to see  _that_ , thought Fakir as he got to his feet, but all told, the thought gave him little comfort.  
  
  
The first time it happened, Fakir paid it little heed. He had, in fact, forgotten about it by the next morning. Nightmares had haunted his sleep for so long that it was habit now to let the details slip out of his mind.  
  
But by the fourth night, when he counted back and realised he had woken up tangled in bedclothes and the thump of his tumble out of bed had rung in his ears -- not to mention the pain all down his side -- for three nights in a row, he suspected something was up.  
  
This did not prevent him, after the sight of an axe-wielding mob caused his horse to throw him from its back, from falling out of bed a fourth time.  
  
  
Understandably, he was fairly grumpy the next morning. It was a quiet grumpiness, which did not want to be announced, but to be brooded over and nursed. When he admitted to Autor that he had been having bad dreams, his cousin scoffed and told Fakir that he hadn't  _wanted_  to bring it up, but in truth Fakir had been grumpier than usual for  _days_.  
  
"Of course, it's only to be expected if you can't cope with..." he began promisingly, so Fakir tuned him out because that was far more productive than arguing. He could count, and so he knew, based on Autor's estimate, which was meticulously accurate as these things went, that it had started on the same day as the nightmares. It was ... annoying, he decided, to know that he had been that transparent.  
  
"And -- are you even listening?" Autor said.  
  
"I should channel the frustration into my writing, bringing a purer sense of emotion into my work," recited Fakir in a dry monotone. "Yes, I've got it. Thanks for your help."  
  
"Huh," said Autor, as his cousin left without so much as a 'goodbye'. "I could have sworn he wasn't paying attention."  
  
  
But it wasn't bad advice. If he wasn't going to sleep well -- Fakir rubbed his bruised shoulder ruefully -- he might as well try to write instead. Good writers are grown, not magicked into being. So out he went into the world, to gather ideas like flowers in May, which was another of Autor's ideas. In truth, Fakir's interpretation had him take a fishing rod and go out to the pier.  
  
Nothing happened for a while, save for what he thought to be a nibble once or twice, but no fish was tempted by the bread on his hook, unlike certain-- But then a group of day trippers ineptly sculled their way across the lake, splashing noisily.  
  
They told him they had seen a small herd of ducks -- "'Herd'? Is that the right word?" -- on their way over, who had been minding their business until they had hauled up, whereupon the trippers had received some seriously dirty looks and very indignant quacking. Fakir, who was very familiar with the sound of indignant quacking, smiled at that. "Those ducks know tourists when they see them," he said, which made them laugh good-naturedly.  
  
"We're sorry about your fishing," one of them said.  
  
"Don't be," said Fakir. "There wasn't even a nibble."  
  
He left them happily splashing around, and went into the part of the forest he had seen in his dream. No song ghosted there and no unholy knight roamed the woods. The dreams had no more claws in this life; all the nightmares were defanged. So Fakir grabbed the lowest branch of a sturdy tree and heaved himself up and up, until he was cradled in its boughs, gazing dreamily out at the lake. It was a good day, he thought, to take a break from the snarled labyrinth of his current writing.  
  
And when he went home, he dutifully pulled out a sharpened quill and a fresh pot of ink. His favourite lamp, which sat on his table, glowed with pleasure at the thought of being used. A clean sheet of paper sat beside it, and Fakir pulled it towards him and began to scribble down ideas.  
  
Before he knew it, though, he had put his head down and dropped off.  
  
  
The dream was old, old: a flurry of black feathers, the caws of strange birds. Fakir ran, his sword in hand, heavy and cold -- he charged at the ravens, slashing wildly, but they only dodged and cried at him in mocking voices.  
  
The street broke beneath his feet, its cobbles all falling into pieces; the ravens only beat their wings noisily, the sound of them growing fainter as the weight of his sword dragged him down and down and down into the darkness--  
  
But suddenly, the sword was shed of its weight and when Fakir turned his head to look at it, it had turned into a white feather in his hand that grew and grew at an astonishingly quick pace until it broke and dazzled around him like the dawn. A thing with gentle wings, warm and full of comfort, bore him skywards and he said, "Ahiru?"  
  
  
Something dislodged from his shoulder when he bolted upright. It quacked indignantly -- familiarly -- and desperately flapped her wings to keep from dashing herself against the floor. The lamp on his table burned merrily.  
  
"Ahiru?" he said again. There was a blanket around his shoulders, he realised, where there had not been one before.  
  
"Quack," she grumped, and was visibly taken aback by his smile, and then suddenly very embarrassed.  
  
"You're back," he observed. He hadn't known where she had gone, but he was glad to see her again.  
  
"Quack," Ahiru agreed. She chortled suddenly, and hopped up onto the table so she could face him and poke at his face with her wing. He rubbed at his cheek and found ink on his palm.  
  
"Ha ha," he said, only he yawned just as he was doing so, and she giggled again.  
  
"Qua quack?" she asked, abruptly sincere.  
  
"I've had worse dreams," said Fakir. He frowned at her suddenly. "You haven't eaten, have you."   
  
As if on cue, her stomach growled. His frown deepened. "Quack quack qua!!" she protested.  
  
"That's beside the point," Fakir defended himself, "and it's only when I'm working!" They continued picking at each other's eating habits as they made their way into the kitchen, even when he reached up to get the bread for her when she could have flown up to get it herself because she was a very resourceful duck, you know, Fakir, who knew how to feed herself even if he didn't know how to feed himself, and it only stopped when they both fell on the food ravenously.  
  
"Welcome home, anyway," he said, during a lull.  
  
"Hmmph," said Ahiru, but she picked up her bread to inch along the table and sit closer to him.  
  
  
  
On the fifth morning, Fakir awoke at the kitchen table and his blanket was covered in breadcrumbs. It was early in the morning, but he could hear the call of waterfowl on the lake, their voices raised in greeting. And through the window, paddling through the mist, he could see the silhouette of what he knew to be a small yellow duck, happily calling back.  
  
Smiling, he went outside to join her.


End file.
